


Work Of Art

by 5_0_5



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: And by a little I mean a lot, Everyone Is Gay, Frank Iero Is A Little Shit, Frank is oblivious, Gerard is an artist, M/M, Set in highschool, different, gerard is, gerard is a little obsesive, they cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:58:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5_0_5/pseuds/5_0_5
Summary: "Frank never spoke to me. I was invisible, transparent and notice-less. But he demanded attention. Got into fights, mouthed off, talked over people. He wore denim jackets over Metallica t-shirts and stomped on gravel. And I noticed these things. And I wrote them down. I wrote a lot of things down. My diary was a mess of peoples habits, but no one inhabited it as much as Frank Iero. He would manage to take up pages in one day. 'He stomps on concrete when he wears combat boots' was written in my own chicken scrawl handwriting. There's proof for you, he was in my diary so much I'd reverted to calling him not Frank, just he. Frank was in front of the school. Every Thursday he'd lean on his stupid blue pickup truck and take a long smoke break. One day, I even counted the seconds between each puff. I flipped to a page marked 1/11. 'Breaths. Five, eight, three, nine, five, six, five, seven...' was written in curly blue ink across the second line of the page."Gerard likes drawing and writing people habits, he loves observing people. But no one catches his attention quite like Frank Iero.





	Work Of Art

_He's like art, Terrible art. But still, art_

Frank Iero. He walked with ego surging around him. His aura read with a venomous tone. He had a certain feel about him. A sharp spark if you brushed shoulders with him. A harsh wave if you met his eyes, which were such a beautiful hazel. I wanted him. But not as a friend. More like an immortalized trophy. Frank Iero spoke gangly, messy sentences and it was rare to see him look someone else in the eye with much interest. He often looked like he was  _in_  himself, instead of being himself. He sometimes seemed like he wasn't even a self, but more of a selves. Like he possessed multiple people in him. A polite one, who smiled at old ladies. A harsh one, who was on the wire of sociopathy. An empty one, who was so radiating sadness you could feel it enter your bones. Frank never spoke to me. I was invisible, transparent and notice-less. But he demanded attention. Got into fights, mouthed off, talked over people. He wore denim jackets over Metallica t-shirts and stomped on gravel. And I noticed these things. And I wrote them down. I wrote a lot of things down. My diary was a mess of peoples habits, but no one inhabited it as much as Frank Iero. He would manage to take up pages in one day.  _'He stomps on concrete when he wears combat boots'_ was written in my own chicken scrawl handwriting. There's proof for you, he was in my diary so much I'd reverted to calling him not Frank, just he. Frank was in front of the school. Every Thursday he'd lean on his stupid blue pickup truck and take a long smoke break. One day, I even counted the seconds between each puff. I flipped to a page marked 1/11.  _'Breaths. Five, eight, three, nine, five, six, five, seven...'_  was written in curly blue ink across the second line of the page. The times continued down 3/4ths of the paper. And at the bottom was a messy blue doodle of Franks lips and an almost gone cigarette between them. I noticed a small note at the corner of the page.  _'I hope he'_ the ink smudged to the edge, but I remember I wrote that the first time I ever spoke to Frank. Or rather, he spoke to me. "You look lonely" hed said so casually in class. Like it was the most normal thing to do while the teacher drawled on and on about the specifics of poetry. "Would you like to change that?" I'd responded. I remember hearing my own whisper, how emotionless it had sounded. He turned away smugly and popped a baby pink bubble of gum and said "Nope" with a pop of the p. And I was in the midst of writing  _'I hope he gets cancer'_  but then I felt really bad because my grandmother had died of cancer. I didn't even notice I smudged it.   
Back to the present, I sat under a dead oak tree in front of our school. My ass was cold and numb on the cold grass, but I stayed still and swiped my pencil across the page nonetheless. It was a rough and messy sketch of Frank in a dark blue denim jacket and black jeans ripped at the knee leaning against his ugly rusted truck with a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. Which was what I was looking at right now. We had 5 minutes before the first bell and I'd get to stare at Frank in class. So I glanced at him through my eyelashes, drew hasty and fast lines, then looked up again. And this cycle repeated until I looked up and saw Frank was looking right at me, I lowered my gaze and kept drawing. His body was so nice to draw, to form with graphite that my diary was full of odd studies of him. His forearms perched on a desk, his crisscrossed legs resting on a seat, his jawline connecting to his throat. When I decided to glance back up at him, he was much closer than before. He loomed over me while standing quite a ways away. Frank was small, but right then he seemed to tower over the oak tree and go through the clouds and I really want to draw that now. I could see it in my head across the dim yellow page with faded blue lines. His eyes peering over a cloud-  _'youre getting sidetracked Gerard'_  I reminded myself. I stood hastily as the bell rang, wanting as far away from Frank as I could get. But he wrapped his tattooed fingers around my leather jacket before I could get away. I tried to tug away when he ripped my book from its special place hugged against my chest. His hand dropped from my jacket and I stood there shamefully.  _'He is looking at my drawing of him and he probably thinks in a fucking freak and is going to out me to everyone and-'_ before I could get that terrible thought process finished, I glanced back up at him. His eyes were widened, his jaw was slack. He looked in awe at the picture before him. "You got some real talent" his voice was deep and rocky. I didn't know what to say. "You're a good muse?" my voice was unsure, my posture was unsure,  _I WAS UNSURE._  He flashed me a lopsided grin and I noticed a cut on his bottom lip. He scribbled something on the page and a million thoughts, feelings rushed through me.  _Too much for one sentence or paragraph to say._ He shoved the book back into my chest, the drawing facing outward and stalked off. I calmed my heart, steadied my breathing. And flipped the book over. _'Call me'_  was written in mismatched and large letters beside a set of 6 numbers. "Call him?" I felt my breath leave me, my throat vibrates with the words. I felt a surge of heat in my veins and my heart beat faster despite the effort I took to calm it down.


End file.
